


silver lining

by alisdas



Series: occupation: brat [8]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (not really mentioned though), Age Difference, Cock Warming, Creampie, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Edgeplay, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Abuse, Quarantine but not really, Slow Dancing, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, attempting to bake bread, brat!reader, couples tht mask together stay together, give peter parker some bread, house arrest is more like it, steve + the reader not giving a fuck about the public, steve painting the reader aww
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23790763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: You and Steve deal with the aftermath of The Article.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Natasha Romanov (Marvel) & Reader, Peter Parker/Reader, Steve Rogers/Reader, Tony Stark/Reader, platonic:
Series: occupation: brat [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1426609
Comments: 14
Kudos: 150





	silver lining

**Author's Note:**

> also available on my tumblr venusbarnes! if you want to catch up with the occupation: brat drabbles they're all available right here: https://venusbarnes.tumblr.com/post/186885409223/%F0%9D%93%B8%F0%9D%93%AC%F0%9D%93%AC%F0%9D%93%BE%F0%9D%93%B9%F0%9D%93%AA%F0%9D%93%BD%F0%9D%93%B2%F0%9D%93%B8%F0%9D%93%B7-%F0%9D%93%AB%F0%9D%93%BB%F0%9D%93%AA%F0%9D%93%BD-is-the-newest-and

When you wake Steve up — trembling and gasping for breath — he shoots up faster than a bullet. He blinks through his grogginess, looking for an alarm, an intruder, _something_ —

But it’s just you. You, with your hair piled atop your head and your nightgown loose on your frame, and if he narrows his eyes and squints he can still see the remnants of glitter from the bathbomb you’d used earlier on your skin. There’s the smell of soap and perfume and your nails are pressed hard to his chest — observations that pass through his mind in a whip-fast second, there one moment and gone the next, because you’re _crying,_ he realises, and everything that isn’t you quickly leaves his mind.

“Hey, hey,” he coos immediately, sitting up and taking half the duvet with him. His hands reach for you, still warm with the last dregs of sleep, and with no regard for the steadily-bunching fabric of your clothing, he pulls you into his lap. He’s been with you long enough to recognize a panic attack — knows the signs, knows the tells, knows how to rock you back down into calmness. With a hand on either side of your face, he hurries into it, ignoring the sudden pit in his stomach. “Talk to me, baby. What’s wrong? What happened?”

It’s then that he notices your phone clutched in your hand — white light casting a ghost-like shadow from the bottom up, and you take a heart-wrenching, shuddering breath as you lift it. “T-they know. They _know_ —- someone told. Someone told—”

Your hand is shaking but he makes out the text perfectly: an article gaining _insane_ traction on the internet, headed by a candid photo of the two of you at the charity event yesterday evening — the title, a haze of words that all bring him to the same conclusion:

The world knows you’re dating. 

_Everyone knows._ Everyone knows, and as Steve stares blankly at the screen of your phone, everything feels like it’s slipping, teetering on a precarious edge with no hope of salvation — because this is _bad_. Worse than bad — bad seems like an insulting understatement, actually, and you must come to that same realisation because you give another choked-sounding sob. The sound snaps him out of his shock, and he pulls the hand holding the incriminating device down so that it’s pinned gently to the bed. Even just the weight of it in your hands seems to drag you down.

“It’s okay,” he assures you hurriedly as you dissolve into your panic, “Look, it’s okay, we’ll be okay—”

And he’s not sure himself if he’s speaking the truth or not, because the _truth_ is that he doesn’t know whether this is the point of no return or if he’s already passed it with the Accords. He knows his name is probably being dragged through the mud as each second passes — knows that half of the world is most likely proclaiming that they’re done with him, _shunning him_ , and as much as he wants to mull over the entire situation, he can’t afford to. Confusion will have to wait. _Anger_ will have to wait.

“_____,” he continues — finally getting to the point where he simply plucks your phone from your hand and throws it somewhere further down the bed— “Listen to me, sweetheart. Listen to me. Breathe with me, c’mon. That’s it. Breathe.”

Your still-shaking hand worms itself underneath his shirt to rest over the left side of his chest — one of the things that always calms you down, steadying your breathing to the thumping of his heart. He clasps his hand over yours, then, crowding the other at the nape of your neck until your forehead rests against his.

“You’re okay, honey,” he murmurs — prays to God that you can see in his eyes that he believes it, that he’ll do anything to make it a reality. Your eyes flicker back and forth between his own, bloodshot and glassy, like you’re trying your hardest to believe him but you _can’t_ , and his heart lurches. “We’re okay. That’s it. Breathe with me.”

An hour later — 3 AM, FRIDAY says — you’re still deathly silent, sitting on Steve’s lap in the common room with a mug of lukewarm hot chocolate. Tony was immediately woken up when FRIDAY started taking note of the sudden influx of mentions of your name online, and he’s been pacing back and forth in the kitchen for — Steve checks his watch — yes, the past hour, too. It’s only a matter of time before the others wake up and realise something is amiss.

His lips have been pressed to your crown for longer than he can remember, but he can’t bring himself to move. Instead, he listens closely to each and every word Tony is saying; pieces together the conversation from the single side he has access to, and he finds his frown deepening with each addition.

The entire situation is putting Steve on edge. For one, this _insider_ that had ratted to the press. Steve’s mind is… racing, to say the least, going between who had known and who could’ve been so disloyal as to tell anyone — and he’s drawing blanks every time, his frustration only continuing to silently mount within him. 

(But his mind keeps going back to how your father had taken such _notice_ of his hand on your waist–) 

And maybe some of that frustration is with himself. Maybe a _lot_ of that frustration is with himself, because—

Because Steve had promised to protect you, back when this all started. Because Steve was _meant_ to protect you, his sweetheart, and here you are, not talking and clinging to him, and this is _his fault._ He’s the older one. It should’ve been his duty to prevent this from happening — if there was any way to stop this from happening, really. He had done his best, and he knew you wouldn’t even _think_ to blame him, but he’s blaming himself.

It’s only when you give a sniffle, leaning forward to place your mug on the coffee table, that Steve sighs, tearing his eyes from where Tony’s frantically talking with what could only be the Avengers’ PR team. His voice becomes a blurred din in the background as the centurion refocuses his attention on you. 

“Cold?” Steve says just to say something, to prompt _you_ to say something, but you only shake your head. Your head hasn’t left his shoulder in the time that you’ve been sitting here, either. Steve readjusts the blanket he’d wrapped around you, pulling it closer to your neck, and he brings his lips to your forehead once more. “Talk to me, _please_.”

He hears your breathing hitch — that heartbreaking little catch that means you’re holding back tears, and you press your nose harder against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m like this—”

“Hey, hey — don’t be sorry. I just need you to tell me what’s going on in there, hm?” His thumb smooths against the baby hairs at your temple. “Don’t shut me out. We’re in this together.”

You take a shaky breath, fingers tightening on his shirt—

(And for what feels like the hundredth time this night — _morning_ — Steve is furious. Who took it upon themself to upset you like this? Who went out of their way to try and ruin your life, to ruin _his_ life? Give him a week and his Nomad suit and he swears to whatever god is listening that he’ll have them strung up and displayed right in front of the Compound—)

“I… I just… I don’t want you to be angry with me.”

“…why would I be angry with you?”

You laugh, warbling and uneven. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I’m supposed to be _over_ all of this — the — the trauma and the fear and _everything._ ” You give a scoff of humour, then, as if you’re laughing at your own naivety. “I… I guess I hoped that after standing up to them, everything would just magically disappear. Instead I just made everything worse. I should’ve known that nothing good comes out of confronting them.”

Steve shifts — moves so that you’re no longer laying your head on his shoulder, but facing him. “This isn’t your fault, do you hear me? You’ve done everything right. We’ve done everything right. Some things are out of our hands, out of your parents’ hands, out of _everyone’s_ hands.”

You bite at the inside of your cheek, roughly rubbing the water from your eyes. You look at him, then — _really_ look at him, not that anxious gaze you’ve been sporting since you woke up — tilting your head to the side in thought. “I wish you would think the same way.”

“What?”

“I know you,” you only say, smile sad, “And I know you think this is somehow your fault too…”

Well, there’s no lie in that. You know him just as well as he knows himself. Just like he knows you — and that’s why he doesn’t even bother denying it. Just smiles, lifting your hand to his lips — and maybe it’s something more than just a kiss. A promise, maybe. A reassurance. An affirmation. Whatever it is, you’re smiling the most genuine smile you’ve had in hours. “Guess we’re just as bad as each other, then, sweetheart.”

“Hm. I guess we are.”

Over your shoulder, Steve sees Tony sigh, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose — somebody’s obviously ranting on the other side, and he only continues to nod in that frustrated way that sets Steve on edge. 

“Why don’t I make you some more hot chocolate?” Steve offers — a badly-veiled excuse to get up and into the kitchen, but you agree anyways. He deposits you in the space beside him, only sparing another kiss on the cheek, and picks up your barely touched mug.

He’s keeping a steady eye — and ear — on Tony’s conversation as he slips into the kitchen; puts on some milk to heat up, takes out the bar of chocolate that would be melted, watches how Tony’s shoulders just continue to slump and slump. He’s reminded that despite all of Tony’s grandeur, he really is just one man… constantly shouldering the problems of his teammates, even since before the Accords. 

There’s a sort of… deep-rooted respect Steve has for Tony, for all he’s done for _everyone_ , yes, but more-so what he’s done for _you._ He’s accepted you with open arms, filling in the father position that had been lost to you for so long, and it’s clear to anyone with eyes that you’re one of the most precious people in his life. And that to Steve is enough to put anyone in his good graces.

Steve clears his throat, leaning back against the counter. Tony’s eyes lift, and he places his hand over the receiver. 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks — winces, then, because everything is very clearly _not_ okay. Tony gives a tired scoff in place of a laugh, shrugging his shoulders.

“‘Bout as good as things could be right now,” he says. Looks over through the open doorway to where you’re still sitting on the couch, turning on the TV to some late-night/ early-morning television, and his voice becomes more weary. “How’s the kid doing?”

“Uh… better,” replies Steve. “Gotta keep her off her phone.”

A well-intentioned snort. “Good luck with that.”

“Any idea who spilled?”

“None.” Tony’s eyes narrow — he glances back at you as if to check that you’re still distracted, before angling himself towards Steve. “Awfully convenient how this comes just after she talks to her parents.”

Steve frowns. You’d thought the same — and he’d entertained the idea for a few seconds, truthfully, but… he’d figured that the last thing you needed was regretting standing up to your parents after anticipating it for years. He didn’t want you to think that somehow you’d brought this to fruition because of it — your parents’ power and influence was one of the things that had always scared you about them.

“You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know yet,” the billionaire says truthfully. “We’ve got no leads, nothing. This ‘insider’ went out of their way to make sure they wouldn’t be caught.”

“I’ll head out first thing in the morning,” Steve says firmly. “If I can get the author of the article in—”

“Actually, you won’t be.” And he’s turning back towards the common area, towards _you_ , leaving Steve with only a vague sense of confusion and a clenched fist. 

“What do you mean I _won’t_ be?” Steve’s voice teeters on the precipice of anger, and the only reason he doesn’t completely succumb to it is mainly because you’ve taken notice of the two approaching men. 

“Look, the folks over at PR think it’s best if you two lay low for a while,” Tony announces, flipping his phone back and forth in his hands. “Things are… rocky, at the moment.”

“People hate us,” you say quietly. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, dad.”

For a moment words are lost on both of them, because whether they had meant to or not, they _had_ been trying to soften the blow. Steve and Tony know how much your reputation and your image matter to you — how much the opinion of your _supporters_ means to you. You spend so much time interacting with them online, talking to them at press events, going out of your way to show them that you could be trusted with their security — and so quickly, they’ve turned their backs on you. Just another bullet point to add to the list of things currently pissing Steve off.

“So, what?” Steve asks, folding his arms. “We’re benched?”

“…Benched is a word for it. No public missions, an ease of workload, no social media, no outside appearances—”

“No outside appearances?” You interrupt, suddenly aghast. You stumble to your feet, looking exasperatedly between the two. “So, what, house arrest? Isolation? _Quarantine_? We didn’t do anything _wrong_ —!”

“I know, pumpkin. But you know how these things are, just as much as I do.” Tony’s hands find a place on your shoulders, and for a second Steve feels like he’s intruding — there’s something incredibly vulnerable and intimate about the way you and Tony look at each other, like you’re communicating without the need to talk. But the moment passes a second later, as you back away and frown down at the ground. “I’m doing all I can to get this cleaned up, okay?”

“I… know. Thanks, dad. Really. I didn’t mean for—”

“Ah, ah, ah. No apologies.” Tony’s already backing away, fingers moving nimbly across his phone screen. “Get some sleep, you two. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

With a weaker-than-usual goodbye, you watch as Tony disappears out into one of many hallways, leaving only you and Steve and a faded commercial for a two-in-one fork-and-straw. 

“So. House arrest.” Steve is the first to speak. He glances down at you. “What do you think?”  
Oh, he knows _exactly_ what you think. He can see it in the way your acrylics dig into your palms and the way your jaw is set and the beginnings of a pout on your lips. You’re probably seething up a storm in your mind, cursing out whoever had put you in this place, but after a second of tension, your shoulders slump.

“This is — this is nothing,” you assure him. “I’ve… we’ve been through worse, right?”  
Sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him. Steve nods anyways, offering his arm to you. “Right.”

“Right.” And with that, you walk back to your room, and hope to forget about the whole thing. At least until the morning.

**Week 1, Day 1.**

“This is the longest we’ve ever laid in,” you realise, face smushed up against Steve’s chest. You’re completely content — blankets warm and heavy, Steve’s arms bulky and trailing goosebumps up and down your side. “House arrest isn’t so bad.”

Steve chuckles. “You’re saying that _now_. Just wait until we’re a week or two in.”

You make a noncommittal noise in the back of your throat as Steve removes his arms from around and underneath you, as he begins to turn, placing his feet on the floor and rising. He would’ve taken you up with him, too, if you hadn’t unwrapped your arms from his waist at the last moment. 

“Where are you _going_?” You whine. “C’mon, Stevie, just ten more minutes.” (Ten more minutes that would become 20, 30, 40…)

“We gotta get some breakfast in you, honey.”

“But I’m not even _hungry_.” As if called to attention, your stomach suddenly gives a _monumental_ gurgle, and you peer up at him sheepishly. “…Maybe a little hungry.”

“At least now we’ll have time for more than cereal,” Steve adds, pulling his shirt over his head. You watch appreciatively, biting the inside of your cheek as the t-shirt falls down over his abdomen. How important is breakfast, really? “I’m sure everyone will be waiting for us in the kitchen. Better not keep them long.”

Another disgruntled noise, but it only takes what you’ve come to dub _The Look_ to get you to slip from bed. You know, Steve’s _Look_. The raised eyebrow and the teensy little smile that says _are you really gonna disagree with me?_ And who knows, on any given day you might… Although, last time it ended with a tickle fight that had you crying so hard you smeared your mascara to your chin, and you’re not sure you can take that at — you glance to your side — 10:11 AM.

“Okay,” you say, with a lighthearted sigh, following him up. You pull on one of Steve’s hoodies over your lounge set, stretching your arms above your head— “Just let me do my skincare.”

“We may as well skip breakfast, then—”

“You’re so overdramatic,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes as his sentence dissolves into chuckles, but you can’t help but smile. It’s been a running joke ever since the first time he stayed over in your room. The next morning you’d been going through the motions, using every tiny bottle lined up on your vanity, and he’d just watched in what you guessed was a mixture of disbelief and confusion. What can you say? You’re high maintenance. Your skin _demands_ it, and honestly, it’s just a matter of time before you rope Steve in — you’ve already put him onto _actual_ face wash, instead of the multipurpose shower gel he’d been using before. Atrocious. Truly, _utterly_ atrocious. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“It’s 10 steps,” you remind him, following him into the bathroom, “Not 100.”

Steve’s finished in what feels like three seconds — rinses his face and then scrubs vigorously with his face wash, brushes his teeth and dries off his skin and moisturises and then he just _watches_ , sitting on the toilet with his head tilted curiously. Face wash, exfoliator, toner, essence, serum, spot treatment, face oil, moisturizer, eye cream, SPF. Each applied with specific movements and a gentle hand, some patted in with your ring finger. 

“One day, I’m going to have you doing this,” you promise him, finally putting away the tube of SPF. “Although you probably don’t need it. How is your skin so clear when you only wash it with soap and water?”

“Supersoldier genes.”

“ _Lucky_.” _Maybe your kids will get his untroublesome skin._

Wait, _what_?

You… have no clue where that thought came from. 

What the _fuck_.

“So!” You clear your throat. “Breakfast?”

The entire kitchen goes silent when you both enter — and they’re all here, all the ones that _can_ be here. Sam’s driven up from his New York apartment; Natasha stayed the night, so she’s here, too; Bucky sits at the island with a box of cereal and carton of milk, pouring each into his mouth periodically; Wanda throws an apple nervously between her hands, Vision standing at her shoulder. Peter has school, you remember, but Tony is nowhere to be seen.

Bucky’s the first to speak.

“So,” he begins slowly. “Have you seen the news—?”

“Uh huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good.” And it’s like the entire kitchen takes a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping and the stiffness that had been so prevalent seeping into nothingness. “How are you guys holding up?”

“I’m not,” you joke — or, half joke, because you’re still not sure of just how well you’re actually dealing with this. The panic attack this morning was one thing, but when you woke up _again_ you were largely more accepting of what had happened — but then you’re confused, and anxious, and you don’t know _who_ is doing this or _why_ or _how_ and—

You’re losing control. The _carefully cultivated_ and _highly appreciated_ control that you had gathered while working with the Avengers, the type that you’d never really had back with your parents. And then there was the fact that your relationship with Steve, well—

It’s your happy place. If a relationship can _be_ a happy place, yours is yours. Away from the missions and the drama and everything else — well, mostly. Of course you and Steve didn’t shy away from the fact that you were teammates, but… You and Steve, you’d always thought that it was something that couldn’t be touched. Unstoppable and unbeatable, and somebody’s just torn that image right from your hands and stomped all over it.

But then there’s that little voice in the back of your head. The irritating (mostly right) voice, that teases: _well, isn’t this really what you wanted? For you and Steve to be free? Why not just rip the bandage off, then?_

A fleeting warm hand on your back — Steve’s — and you’re pulled right out of your own thoughts. He sends you a quick, reassuring smile as he passes, going straight for the fridge. “We’re on, uh, house arrest for the unforeseen future.”

Sam hides a wince, tilting his cup of coffee towards you. “And what do you think about that, missy?”

“Well, I’m trying _not_ to,” you reply. “I don’t know. I feel like we’re being attacked by the public for something that isn’t even any of their business. And now I have to — I have to put my life on pause? Because they don’t like who I’m dating?” 

(You realise that maybe you _are_ , in fact, thinking about it, and you’re getting quite pumped up in the process.)

“I understand,” Sam says. “And I know it’s hard to come to terms with. But look on the bright side — you said last week that you wanted to learn how to bake, didn’t you? You got all the time you need now.”

“And you did say you wanted to get through that pile of books you’ve never read,” Bucky adds.

“ _And_ you said—”

“Okay,” you interrupt. “I’ve said a lot of things. Thank you for reminding me — oh, thanks, Stevie.”

Steve places a bowl of oatmeal in front of you, topped with granola and cranberries, all artfully assembled into the shape of a smiley face. It’s so goofy that for a second you forget your anger, your irritation, your frustration, and take what everyone had said to heart. You do have a lot of books to be read. And you _did_ say you wanted to learn how to bake properly. And it’s not like you’d be alone! You’d have Steve, and the team, and you’d be able to call your friend whenever.

“What do you think, Stevie?” You say to him as he returns to sit beside you with his own bowl. “Looking forward to house arrest?”

“I… guess I appreciate some time away,” said with a fleeting kiss to your forehead. “But, uh… the circumstances could’ve been better.”

With the way he stabs into his oatmeal, you can tell he’s a lot more wound up than he’s letting on — but that’s a conversation you know he’ll have to bring to you in his own time, and maybe not while surrounded by the entire team.

“Think of it this way,” Natasha interjects — reaches over and plucks a cranberry straight from your bowl before you can slap away her hand, “You’ve wanted a holiday for the longest time. You finally got one.”

“Right,” you agree. “A holiday. Totally.”

“Glad that you’re seeing the positives,” is the first thing Tony says when he walks in — looking like he hasn’t gotten even a single wink of sleep. His shirt from the charity gala is rumpled and the top three buttons are undone — his hair sticks up at all angles, and he’s carrying an empty coffee cup in one hand. You’re sure that it’s been refilled a couple of times, and you can’t help the sudden surge of guilt that follows at the thought.

“Morning, dad.”

“Morning, kid,” he says, placing a fleeting kiss on your forehead as he passes. Without waiting a second, he tosses his phone into the centre of the table, effectively drawing the attention of _everybody_. “Okay, so no-one in this room told, right? Right. Good.”

“Why would you even _ask_?” Natasha’s eyes narrow.

“It’s just a formality,” he says, waving his hand. “Now that we’ve gotten it out of the way, we’ve got to figure out what we’re doing. I’ve already spoken with the article’s author, and they said the source was completely anonymous.”

“Well, then they can’t be sure that it’s true,” you interject. “That could be anyone trying to stir stuff up. That could be anyone. _Lying_.”

“They make compelling arguments.” Tony sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “There’s pictures of you two getting coffee and walking around New York and — it’s… it’s just not platonic enough to be normal. And now the source is saying they have more _incriminating_ evidence ready to release whenever they want.”

You feel tears beginning to prick at your eyes — you groan, leaning down to press your head against the table, and you wonder just _when_ your life became an episode of Pretty Little Liars. 

“Well, complete radio silence will only get us so far,” comes Steve’s voice — and then his hand is on your back, warm and grounding against your spine. “Sooner or later, we’ll have to say something.”

“We can’t deny it,” you mumble, sitting back up. You look over at Steve, trying to gauge how he’s feeling. “If we deny it — I mean, we have to go public _sometime_ , right? If we deny it now, and then reveal it a few years later, we’ll lose everyone’s trust.”

Sam hums. “‘ _They lied that, what else are they lying about_?”

“Exactly.” Your hand finds Steve’s. He’s got that look on his face, even as he looks at you, that says that he’s deep in thought. Weighing every pro and con with almost _scary_ precision, you imagine, in that way that only he can. For all the risks he takes — both on missions and in his personal life — they’re _always_ for the greater good. _Always_ to protect the people he loves. “What about it, Stevie?”

He exhales, running a hand over his beard — exchanges a glance with Tony over your head. “What does it mean for us if I say yes?”

Tony shrugs. “The world’ll go crazy for a few weeks. Then it’ll die down, and hopefully we can all go about our lives—”

“I don’t need _hopefully_ , Tony,” interrupts Steve — and his hand tightens around yours. “I need to know that when the dust settles, we’ll be okay. _She’ll_ be okay.”

“This isn’t just about me,” you argue, but no-one seems to hear you. The entire room is focused on the silence between Steve and Tony, waiting with bated breath.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if it didn’t mean she’d be okay,” Tony eventually says. Steve just nods, a non-verbal agreement seemingly settling over the two. 

“Well!” Bucky claps his hands. “Now that _that’s_ settled: the leak. Any ideas?”

**Week 1, Day 2.**

“… the official statement was released in the early hours of this morning, paraphrased as follows: ______ and Captain Rogers have been in a happy relationship for the past year. They hope that by confirming and confiding this highly personal information to the public, they will gain your sympathy for the incredible disrespect they have suffered to their own personal lives. At this time, we ask that you respect the privacy of our heroes, just as they have respected and protected you for years on end. Please understand that while this is a personal matter, it’s also being treated as a serious security threat._ We’ve seen a wide range of reactions, Brad, to this statement—”

The TV — and the news report, in turn — goes completely black. You don’t even have to look over your shoulder to know that Steve is leaning against your doorframe, arms folded, brows furrowed. “I thought we said no news.”

You shrug, sending him a small smile. “Thought I could sneak in 30 minutes while you were away.”

“Brought the reports back to work from home.” He begins to walk in, and you notice the manila folders tucked under his arm. “Didn’t want to leave you alone.”

You almost preen. The residential and private floors of the Compound take up the third last and second last top floors — the commercial floors, where you usually work, stretch all the way down into subterrain. Steve’s your senior at work, technically — has the gigantic office and equally as hefty workload to show for it. Where you’d have four or five mission reports to fill in on a _bad_ week, he’s got about 6 of his own, as well as an _entire_ strike teams’ to look over and review.

And Steve had come up so that you wouldn’t be _lonely_.

“I’m not alone—” You make a pointed gesture to the cat half strewn across your lap, blissfully and ignorantly napping. “I’ve got Stark.”

“ _Very_ funny. I’m sure he’s an amazing conversationalist.”

“You’d be very jealous, actually, Steve—” Leaning up as he approaches to give him a short kiss— “Do you need help?”

“ _Willingly_ doing mission reports?” Steve says — half incredulous, half joking. “I remember getting you to do them before we started dating was like pulling teeth.”

“Yeah, well. I have nothing better to do.” _And the only reason why you didn’t do the reports in the first place was because it irritated him_. You pick one from the top of the pile as he gets himself situated beside you —but then Stark is blinking awake, giving a tiny little mewl, and then—

You watch, mouth agape, as your cat has the _cheek_ to completely migrate from your lap to _Steve’s_. 

You abandon the folder right back where you got it. “…I’ve changed my mind.”

**Week 1, Day 4.**

“Oh, Steve, you look so _pretty_!”

In Steve’s defense, you had asked so _nicely_. So _prettily_ , with your eyes all big and hopeful and your arms wound around his neck, and you’d nuzzled your nose into the side of his face, and now that he thinks of it, he can’t even really remember what it was that you had asked. All he knows is that your lips were on his cheek and your fingers were playing with his hair, and then—

He was a goner. He’d resigned himself to laying on the bed for near an hour and forty-five minutes, head laying on your lap, watching whatever it was you had on TV — some badly-scripted reality show — while you poked and prodded and pulled at his skin. First with a pair of tweezers at his eyebrows, and then some sort of bright orange mask all over — you even managed to steal the shaver he has in his bathroom to clean up his beard. Then, all of it was followed by a little _metal stick_ that he genuinely had to do a double-take at, because he had _no clue_ what business it had being near his skin, but as you had so matter-of-factly proclaimed: _It’s for extractions, Steve. It won’t hurt that much. Just stay still—_

And then another mask — this one a pastel sort of green that you slathered all over his face, humming happily — and it felt like his skin was so tight that it was close to bursting. He can’t say that it was the most appealing feeling on the planet, but…

“You’re so handsome,” you coo, bending over him to pepper kisses along his cheek, “Look at your skin! _Gleaming_ , you’re welcome. And the beard! Oh, the beard—”

 _He_ knows _you_ know the fawning is just bordering on theatrical, but he won’t lie and say that he’s not enjoying it. He’s a simple man — to have his girl wrapped around him and telling him he’s handsome certainly isn’t his idea of a _bad situation_. And after an uneventful day of mission reports, gym, mission reports, TV, mission reports, and — you get the jist — laying in bed and having you massage his skin is maybe the one thing powerful enough to have him relaxed enough to be blinking away sleep.

“You can’t go to _sleep_ ,” he hears you say, voice a whine. When he opens his eyes, you’ve got an open pot of some _other_ beauty product in your hand — when you tilt it towards him, the mask inside _glitters_. “It’s a _glitter mask_ , Steve. A _glitter mask._ ”

He sighs — says something like: _I’m not staying up for another hour so that you can put glitter on my face._

(And then he stays up for another hour so that you can put glitter on his face.)

**Week 1, Day 6.**

“I’m never doing this again. _Ever_ again. If I ever see another packet of yeast, I’m going to shoot someone.”

The first loaf is… dismal. Even Steve will admit that. Flat and rock-hard, slightly too-scorched on the top and undercooked in the middle, and you glare at it like it’s the source of all your problems. _Paul Hollywood would be so disappointed with me right now_ , is the first thing you say to him when he enters. 

The kitchen shows the length of your efforts — maybe a little _too_ much: flour casting a greyish cast on the tiled floors, counters still sticky from when you’d been kneading the dough. The sink is piled high with dirty bowls, and the ingredients have been shoved haphazardly to the side. Even Stark’s pink little nose is dusted with white. 

Steve doesn’t _quite_ know what he had been doing before he walked in — he finished the last of his day’s work, read a book, wondered how you were getting on with what you called _the endeavour of the century_ , before he decided to check up on you. And now, here he stands.

“It doesn’t look _too_ bad,” Steve tries. You look up at him in that way that says _really, Steve?_ _Really?_ And _yeah_. It does look bad, but you’d been so excited to try your hand at breadmaking and he doesn’t have the heart to let you down. “C’mon, I’ll try a piece.”

“No,” you say immediately, yanking the loaf back away from him. “I’m not giving you food poisoning. That’s, like, destruction of government property or something.”

“I’m a supersoldier,” scoffs Steve. “Some bread won’t kill me.”

(No, it doesn’t kill him. He’s only on his knees for an hour that night, puking into your toilet bowl.)

**Week 2, Day 1.**

“Natasha’s personally interrogating the author of that article,” Steve says nonchalantly over lunch. He tilts the salad bowl in his hands towards you. “Want some?”

“Yeah, please.” He begins to spoon it onto your plate, and you glance over your shoulder at the unused elevator. “Today?”

“What?”  
“Is she interviewing them today?”

Steve immediately catches on to what you’d been thinking, and not for the first time you wonder what the point was in all those classes in schooling your features when he can read you like an open book. “Sweetheart, you can’t go and watch.”

“But they won’t even know I’m there!” You start, reaching under his arm for your glass of water, “I’ll watch from behind the mirror—”

“_____.”

You huff, folding your arms. “ _What._ ”

“We need to take a step back from the case.”

“How?” You demand. “It’s about _us_. We have every right to get involved—”  
“Until we become biased, or until our emotions start to affect our ability to work,” Steve only reminds you, calm and collected in that way that he usually is when you start becoming… _irritable_. “The team will get us when they need us. For now, we—”  
“Sit and do _nothing._ ”

Steve sets the salad bowl back down — rests his elbows on the table and forgoes eating for just… _looking_ at you.

You know, in the back of your head, that you’re being incredibly unfair; you know that Steve is better at dealing with stuff like this — he can always just see things in such a way that he always knows what’s _right_ — but still, you know he can’t be dealing with forced house arrest too well. If there’s anything you know about Steve, it’s that he doesn’t exactly _like_ being told what to do, even if it’s for the greater good.

He just… he just hasn’t _talked_ to you about it yet — the whole situation, you mean. How he feels about being outed the way you were. He’ll just keep it in and internalize it because he’s so used to shouldering everyone’s problems, and he probably won’t even _try_ to tell you until you prompt him to. He’s never been as open as you with how he’s feeling, and that’s been something you’ve had to get used to. Maybe now is the time for him to get it off his chest.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I’ve been really unfair about the entire thing. I haven’t even asked you how you feel about it.”

“I told you. I don’t mind being inside—”

“I mean about the _leak_ , Steve,” you say. “The leak, and — and the _press_ , and… everything.”

For a moment, Steve just freezes, his tongue pushing against his teeth — and then he jabs his fork into a particularly large piece of pasta, pushing it around his plate. You feel your lips tighten with pity — and before you can convince yourself otherwise, you round the table and plant yourself right in his lap.

“Hey,” you murmur, cupping his face in your hands — his beard is scratchy against your hands, but it’s become one of your favourite feelings because it comes from _him_. “You’re always there for me. You’re always _protecting_ me, _listening_ to me — let me do the same for you.”

“I don’t want you to have to.”

“I _don’t_ have to,” you reply. “And neither do you. But we do, because we love each other and we care about each other and I _want_ to. Okay?”

He still looks uncertain, and you try not to take it personally. You know it’s not because of you — he just needs help sometimes. So, leaning your forehead against his, you press a kiss to the tip of his nose — rubbing your thumbs back and forth on his cheeks, trying to soothe him. “C’mon, Stevie. Talk to me.”

His mouth opens — closes, opens. Opens, closes. His eyes flicker back and forth between your own, and you know that he’s wishing that he could just let you know what he’s feeling like _this_. Words are finicky and they take _effort_ and _finesse_ and sometimes they come out like one big muddled mistake. 

“I won’t interrupt,” you add. “Just say what’s on your mind.”

“Okay, I — okay.” He clears his throat — licks his lips, tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to convert his thoughts to understandable sentences, but then: “I’m angry. I’m more than angry. I haven’t been this furious since — since the Accords. I’m angry at the leak, and I’m angry at the news, and I’m angry at — at _myself_. This — _us_ — is _ours_. Not for anyone else to speculate or stare at like we’re animals in a _zoo_. I feel like I’m back to — I don’t know, dancing on stage and pretending to punch Hitler.

“And I _know_ you don’t need to be protected, but I also know that _you_ know that I want to protect you. I’m… I’m the older one, I should be doing everything in my power to keep you safe, and now I feel like I’ve failed. Everything that you didn’t want to happen, happened.”

You wait for a second for him to continue, but he doesn’t. So, swallowing the sudden dryness in your throat and ignoring the glassiness of your eyes, you lean back to stare him dead in the eyes. “ _Fuck_ the news. _Fuck_ the leak. You’ve got me and I’ve got you and that’s all we need, okay? This leak was — was out of _both_ of our hands. And we can’t go back and change it, so we need to keep pushing forward, yeah?”

Steve nods, but his eyes are shiny, and _fuck_ —

Quickly, you surge forward and just _kiss_ _him_ , because you need to stop yourself from crying and you’re overwhelmed with a fresh wave of emotion from the man under you, a man who’s _always_ protected you to the best of his ability. You can’t stand to see him blame even a small bit of this on himself.

Sniffling, you pull back just slightly. “You’re always there for me, Stevie. Always keeping me safe. You haven’t failed, _ever_. Do you hear me?”

You’re finally rewarded with a smile — a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless. You let your head be pulled gently to rest against his shoulder, his chin tucked into the crook of your neck. “I hear you, sweetheart. I hear you.”

**Week 1, Day 7.**

“Heard you and Cap went on a little trip yesterday,” is the first thing Tony says, 30 minutes into you taking a seat on his second workbench. While you hadn’t been trying to actively _hide_ your little impromptu date, you weren’t screaming from the rooftops about it — it was just a tiny little restaurant in the closest small town, a little family-owned place that had been quiet and peaceful and exactly what you both needed. 

You _know_ the PR team had advised you to stay in, but… but it was _late_. And in towns like that, the nightlife isn’t exactly thriving. The only people in the restaurant had been an elderly couple and a single mother with her child. No-one had paid you any attention — for once, it felt like you were normal. Invisible.

You’d woken up in such a good mood that you genuinely didn’t even _think_ about the fact that you weren’t supposed to be out. “Oh. Uh… you — you know about that?”

Tony hums. A sudden spark from the monitor in front of him makes him hiss and curse, yanking his hand back, and he finally turns to look at you. He’s getting _way_ too good at the _knowing parent_ face, you think, biting your lip sheepishly. 

“I can’t control what you guys do,” he starts, folding his arms. “But remember that we’re doing this _for_ you.” He sighs. “I hope you were at least careful.”

“We were,” you assure him. “We — we made sure we went late and no-one could see us, and we only stayed as long as we needed, and—”

“Kid.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to _explain_. I’m not angry, I’m just… I need you to be careful.” He sets his hands on your shoulders. “You’re family, both of you.”

(God, if only Steve was around to hear Tony say _that_.)

You clear your throat of whatever tears had started to gather, nodding. “I know, dad.”

**Week 2, Day 2.**

“Do you ever think—” You start, lips moving as minutely as possible— “You’d do this as a career?”

Steve has you positioned like the timeless subject of an 18th century Romantic painting — completely naked under thick silk blankets, one elbow propped on the edge of the chaise lounge, and the other by your side, legs folded casually atop each other. He’d even gone as far as to pick some flowers from around the Compound to lay around you, with one tucked behind your ear. 

He had never had the chance to really delve into his own art, he had told you. Now, he can afford the best paints and the best canvases and the best equipment, and — in his own words — he has the _prettiest muse._ What a _sap_.

(You had still giggled.)

Some might think that modelling for a painting is boring, sitting still for hour long intervals at a time, having to stay as statue-like as possible in the same position — but you find it quite relaxing, being able to just sit in relative silence with Steve. He may be the painter, taking down your image on canvas with oils, but you have no problem with watching _him_. 

He’s so _transfixing_ when he’s concentrated, and you don’t use the word lightly — especially like this, with the sun streaming in from behind his head, making his hair look like actual gold. His eyes are narrowed, flickering between you and his canvas, and sometimes his tongue dips out to wet his lips, and — you don’t know. Is seeing a man mix paint some sort of kink? Are you the creator of a new untapped kink market?

“I don’t know,” Steve finally replies, placing one paintbrush between his teeth to reach for another. “Before everything, I… I guess I hoped I would. And then push came to shove and all I knew was war.”

“And now?” You say. “If… I don’t know, if you ever retired…?”

Steve quirks a brow, looking up at you momentarily. “You want me to retire?”

“I never said that, dummy,” snarks you, “I mean — if you _wanted_ to, I wouldn’t argue…”

“Don’t think I’d know what to do if I didn’t work.”

“Well, _you_ wouldn’t have to know, because _I’d_ know, because _I’d_ be retired, too. We’d go travelling through Europe and Asia and Africa, and then we’d buy some land in Italy and have _pigs_ —”

“ _Really?_ ” marvels Steve in a theatrically amazed voice — but there’s a certain softness in his voice that lets you know that he’s entertaining the idea himself. “A house in _Italy_? With pigs? You’ve got this all planned out, honey.”

“I know. I mean, I’d have to get used to taking care of pigs, but I think I’d get the hang of it quickly. And you could have a _whole_ painting setup on the porch and paint from dusk till dawn if you wanted.”

“And you’d bake bread all day?”

You take the nearest flower and throw it _right_ at his head. “Yes. And I’d give you food poisoning every time, and you’d _love_ it.”

Steve doesn’t sound like he’s lying when he says: “Sounds like heaven.”

**Week 2, Day 3.**

“How’s everybody taking the news?” You ask, playing nervously with your bottom lip.

Your friend, Vera — the same friend that had been the one to text you as soon as the article was published — hums over the phone. “Not the one to be asking, sweetie. Nobody will see a bad thing about you around me, they know I’d beat their ass.”

You snort a laugh. “Yeah, should’ve guessed.”

“How about you? How you holdin’ up?”

“Y’know, it’s actually not that bad,” you admit. “I mean, sometimes I get a bit stir-crazy, but Steve, he — he’s just perfect. We go on picnics and he snuck us out to go have dinner last week, and — I don’t know. He likes painting, so sometimes I model for him—”  
A loud squeal has you holding the phone away from your ear, restraining a laugh. “ _Nude_ modelling?!”

“ _Clothed_ modelling, thank you very much,” you correct her. “Well, most of the time—”

 _Another_ high-pitched sound, and you’re just as giggly as her. 

“Out of all the men in the world,” Vera says finally, breathless, “You bagged Captain _fucking_ America.”

“Yeah,” you say, maybe a _tad_ dreamy. “Yeah, I did.”

**Week 2,** **Day** **Night 5.**

“O-oh, God. _Oh, God_. I — I can’t hold it, I can’t, I can’t—”

“ _Hold it._ You can, I know you can, princess.”

Your fingers clutch the sheets so tightly that for a moment, Steve thinks that they might rip — your breaths come in short, rapid exhales, and he can see your stomach tensing and relaxing with each pass of his thumb over your clit.

Steve has got _time_ on his hands. And time means that he can bring you to the edge as many times he wants, hold your orgasm over your head, and then take it all right back. You’re so responsive now that when he passes his other hand over your nipple, your entire body seems to _seize_ — back arching off the bed, a long, pained whine dragging pitifully from your throat — and he feels bad, really, but you look so _pretty_ like this; glistening with sweat and your lips swollen and bitten, squirming around from the three fingers inside you and the thumb pressed hard against your little bundle of nerves.

“Steve, Stevie, _please_ — it _hurts,_ I can’t _—_ ” You’re pressing your palms to your eyes, now, hips bucking up towards him— “Daddy? Please?”

 _Goddamnit_. You always know just how to pull at his heart strings, with your voice all breathy and desperate when you call him that — and your hands are shaky as they reach down, one coming to cling to the one he’s got at your chest, the other fixing itself at his wrist between your legs. 

“If daddy makes you cum now, you’ll have to do it again when I’m inside you,” he warns — stomach tightening just _thinking_ about it. “Are you sure you want it?”

“I — I —”

“Use your words.”

“Yes—” said with a gasping sob, a clench around his fingers, and Steve hums. “Yes, yes please, I want it—”

“Okay. You can cum, then.”

And he imagines that it’s so intense that it almost hurts, brought to and back from the edge so many times. You can’t even bring yourself to make a _noise_ — your back just arches and your toes curl and your fingernails dig so deep into his skin that he almost winces. Steve watches your face — that’s always his favourite part, seeing your face when you let go. With your mouth agape and your eyes screwed shut and your eyebrows knitted together, pleasure painted over every feature in a myriad of colour. 

“Good girl,” because he can’t help but coo it, watching your limbs finally begin to slacken and become boneless against his sheets. His hand snakes its way down from your breast to your stomach, and he smooths his hand firmly over your abdomen as you continue to come down. “Look at that. Look how well you take it.”

You’re still panting five minutes later, albeit much more subdued. You blink your eyes open sleepily, peering up at him. “You — _really_ meant one more?”

His hands grasp your hips, tug you closer to him, and his grin just borders on devilish when the wetness of your pussy meets his thighs. “Oh, yeah.”

**Week 3, Day 1.**

“This one is… better,” you decide, tilting your head curiously at the loaf in front of you. Not burnt — most likely not undercooked, and monumentally less flat than the last loaf. “Whaddya think, Pete?”

“I thought you were never going to touch yeast again,” Peter answers, looking up from his assigned reading. Or, rather, Stark’s self-proclaimed throne. The cat has reclined right in the middle of his textbook, and shows no signs of moving anytime soon. “Actually, when you texted me, your exact words were: _yeast is dead to me._ With no context.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind.” _I promised to make Steve bread everyday when we live in Italy, and by God I will make that man bread._ “And also, I’m going mad inside like this. I need something to do. I can’t exactly afford to be picky.”

You pick up the bread knife beside you, and begin to saw off a slice. “C’mon. Try it.”

“…I don’t know,” says Peter, uneasy. When you narrow your eyes at him, he whines: “Bucky said you gave Steve food poisoning!”

“That was _last time_!” You argue. “This one’s fine. Look, I’ll have some myself—”

“No! Because then _you’ll_ get food poisoning, and then Steve will be mad at _me_ for not stopping you—!”

_“Nobody is going to get food poisoning!”_

“Do I… even _want_ to know?” It’s Bucky, fresh off a video call from Wakanda, standing at the door to the kitchen and looking as tired as he is old. “More bread?”

“Yeah,” you say sweetly. “Want to try some?”

Bucky sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “Sure.”

“Well,” you gripe, casting Peter a pointed look as you cut Bucky his own slice. “At least _someone_ cares about me.”

**Week 3, Day 3.**

“Does the _St. Regis_ mean anything to you?”

You’re leafing through Steve’s prized collection of vinyls when Natasha makes her presence known. Steve’s still in the shower, but you’d managed to get out before him for once in your life — but only because you’d gotten in early. Your hair’s still wet and the only thing you’ve really got on is your underwear and a sundress.

“The hotel? The one in the city?” _Once In a While — Tommy Dorsey._ You hum thoughtfully, sliding it out of the box. You like this one. While you cross Steve’s room to get to his record player, you ponder her question. “Not really. I mean, my parents have a room there — why?”

The hesitation before she speaks is enough to really get your attention. “Nat, what is it?”

“We… got access to the author’s work email. We tried to find out where the informant’s email was sent from but it was encrypted — at least until now. FRIDAY traced it to a computer at the _St. Regis_.”

And your mind immediately goes to _them_. It’s like a flood, if you have to put a name to it: a bunch of conspiracy theories rushing to the forefront of your brain, and your hand freezes over the player’s pin. “What are you saying, Nat?”

“We don’t know anything yet,” she says slowly, stepping closer. “Don’t jump to conclusions, okay?”

Oh, you’d already taken the leap. You’d already gotten the theoretical gold medal for the long jump of conclusions—

“Look,” Natasha continues, soft. She places her hand on your bicep, talking in that soothing voice she so rarely uses. “When you’re ready — when you’re _both_ ready, we’ll walk you through what we found, okay? There’s no evidence pointing towards them. It’s still open.”

_It’s still open. It’s still open._

(They wouldn’t do that to you, would they? You know they’re horrible, you know they’ve done terrible things to you, but some part of you still wants to believe that this is a line that even _they_ wouldn’t cross. Is their pride really so important that they’d ruin your life over you having the nerve to stand up to them?)

((Yes. Yes, they probably would.))

“Okay,” you agree, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Okay, we’ll be down.”

“Okay.” Natasha spares you a small, encouraging smile, before she presumably heads back down to whatever meeting room they’d set up shop in. 

_It’s still open,_ you think, taking a seat on the edge of the bed _. It’s still open, and even if they did do it, it’s not your fault. They make their own choices that are out of your hands._

It is _not_ your fault, and it _never_ has been.

**Week 3, Day 4.**

When you enter your closet in the morning and catch sight of what you’ve fondly deemed your _event corner_ , you’re reminded that you’ve got at _least_ three dresses collecting dust, never worn before. You can’t even remember the events they were for, really — the only thing you know is that they’re _beautiful_ and _expensive_ and you won’t be able to wear them out now. Which is disappointing, of course, because if there’s one thing you’re _known_ for, it’s showing up and out at red carpets.

You reach out and let the softness of tulle and silk slip through your fingers, humming thoughtfully. You can’t wear them out, but… you can wear them inside, right? And Steve’s been fooling around with his Polaroid for the past thirty minutes — might as well give him something to snap.

Mind made up, you scoop all three up in your arms, fabric obscuring your sight as you stumble back into your room. With a huff, you drop the — extremely heavy — bundle on the bed. Steve glances up from where he’s messing about with the camera’s settings, brow quirked curiously, but he soon resigns to leave you to your madness—

Which is how you find yourself sitting at your vanity mirror, beige tulle bunched up and over your chair and spilling onto the floor, makeup done to perfection, wearing the _largest_ and _most dramatic_ lashes you have at your disposal. 

It’s one of those dresses with an invisible neckline, embroidered flowers and birds sewn over your chest and down your arms and torso. It reaches just above your ankles, and every time you swish your hips it moves like water. So _pretty_ , the type of dress that makes you feel like a princess — and so much hard work has gone into making it, you can’t help but feel kinda guilty about wearing it around your home. Especially since your trust fund is most _definitely_ gone now – you can’t afford to be wearing $7000 dollar dresses casually! You’re on a $3500 limit from now on. 

“Now what have I done to deserve this?” Says Steve — and when you glance up from your tube of lipgloss you realise that he’s already staring at you, all fond in that way that makes your heart spin. You fight a dopey little grin, twisting around to face him. “Is it my birthday?”

“Do I need an excuse to dress up?” You tease, standing — you make sure to twist your hips back and forth, then, swinging the dress around prettily. “I had this dress saved for the Stark-Potts Foundation Charity Ball, but… since we can’t actually _go…_ ”

“Y’know, I think I like this better,” says Steve, setting his camera aside. He approaches you slowly, settling one hand on the slope of your waist, the other curving around your back, and the boyish smile of his sets his face aglow. “Just the two of us, right here.

“ _Really_?” You say, raising a brow in disbelief. “Here, in my room? Instead of the ballroom with the pretty lights and the fancy food and the live music?”

“I think that’s more up your alley, not mine,” he remarks. “And look — we got the pretty lights—” He nods up at the string of fairy lights around the coving of your room— “We got the food — not so fancy, maybe—” A nod to the bowl of grapes you’d been snacking on— “And the music may not be live, but—”

You chortle, “There _is_ no music, Stevie—”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He holds up a finger, tilting his head with a stupid little smirk on his face. “D’you hear that?”

No. You hear absolutely nothing. Wait, that’s a lie: you can hear… breathing. You can hear yourself breathing, and that’s it.

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” you play along. “Uh, the — the music, of course. Beautiful.”

“Stunning, isn’t it?”

“Completely.”

“Well, let’s dance, then,” encourages Steve, pulling you closer. 

“We danced this morning.” Because you did, right in this very spot, though it was less like dancing and more like swaying, all to the tune of some slow song on the radio. You’d been barely awake, half asleep and leaning most of your weight on him, but it was perfect. It’s your favourite thing to do with Steve, really — to just wrap yourself up in him, head on his shoulder, and move peacefully together. 

“And now we’ll dance again,” he simply says — dipping his head, then, to press his lips to yours, as if to dissuade you from any more half-hearted arguments, even though he comes away with his lips shiny and glittery. No more complaints from you, then, as he begins to rock back and forth with you.

It suddenly strikes you that this may look particularly strange to any outsider looking in — you, wearing your fancy dress and your flawless makeup, feet bare; Steve with his shirt and his khaki pants, looking _monumentally_ more underdressed and _still_ somehow better-looking; no music to speak of — but for you and Steve, there’s nothing strange about it. Something’s extremely natural about the way he dips his neck to place a tender kiss _just_ at your pulse point — something warm and familiar about the drift of his fingers up and down your spine. Something rhythmic and repetitive and comforting about the press of the carpet beneath your toes.

This house arrest really isn’t all too bad.

**Week 3, Day 6.**

“You… made that?”

Peter sounds surprised, and you scowl over Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, I did, Spider _-Boy_.”

You have reached peak humanity. This is the highest your talents will ever reach, you’re sure of it — all the languages you know, all the skills you’ve been taught, every fighting style you’ve mastered, none of them compare to _this_. This perfect, rotund, golden-brown orb of cooked dough. Crusty on the outside, fluffy and pale on the inside, and you feel like a proud mother. 

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever made,” you sigh. You dig your chin further into Steve’s chin, then, watching as he cuts it up into slices. “Hey, be careful with it. You have to treat her gently.”

“Your bread’s a ‘her’?” Steve comments.

“My bread is whatever she wants to be,” you correct, reaching under his arm and nabbing a piece. “God, that’s _good_. Peter, come try some—”  
And he doesn’t even _complain_ this time, would you believe—

“That’s…” Peter’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. That’s really good.”

“I _know_. Peter, do you know what this means for me as a person? I’ve transcended to a higher level of being. I’ve—”

“Just give me another piece, please.”

“Spoilsport.” You turn your attention to Steve, who’d been quietly munching away on his own piece. “Whaddya think, Stevie? Good?”

He hums, planting an affectionate — if not slightly crumby — kiss on your cheek. “‘S Really good. Knew you could do it.”

“You know, I meant it when I said I’d bake you bread everyday. I’m not putting words in your mouth, but I’d say you’re a _pretty_ lucky guy.”

“Well, I already know that, don’t I?”

“Hey, why does _he_ get bread everyday?” 

“Because he’s my _boyfriend_ , Peter. Butt out.”

**Week 4, Day 1.**

Steve’s hands on your waist are just short of bruising — helping you balance as you bounce up and down on top of him, arms still strong and unwavering despite the fact that this has been going on for the better part of an hour.

You’re completely boneless. He’d had his tongue between your thighs and his fingers, as well, and then he’d made you cum right around him, too. Arms and legs like jelly, the only thing keeping you up at this point is Steve — and he’s close, you know. You can see it in the hard look in his eyes, the flickering of his gaze from your bouncing breasts to your blissed-out face, the way he grits his teeth at a particularly squeeze around him.

“Where do you want it, princess?” He grunts, fingernails digging into your skin. “C’mon, tell me.”

And he already knows where you want him, because it’s where you _always_ want him, but—

“Inside me,” is your answer, gasping and shuddering and barely intelligible. “I — I want it inside me, please—”

“ _Fuck_. You want daddy’s cum inside you, huh, princess? ‘S that what you want?”

Oh, God. If you weren’t so fucking _spent_ already, you’d be prepared to go again _just_ from that. Steve’s confidence in the whole _dirty talking thing_ has _skyrocketed_ since the first time you’d slept together, and even that _alone_ is enough to have you whimpering lowly — you can only watch, mouth agape, as Steve’s chest rumbles with a final rumbling growl, his hips jutting up to meet you as you bottom out again — and then there’s that warmth that blooms in you, the unmistakable (and slightly addictive) feeling of him spilling inside you. 

As Steve’s grip gradually loosens — petting your sides gently — you just _collapse_ forward onto him, breathing heavily by his ear. His own breath is laboured, remarkably less than yours, but that’s just another perk of that pesky supersoldier serum. His fingers up and down your spine is enough to start to lull you off to sleep, but then:

Steve’s hands are back on your waist, prepared to lift you up and off him, when—

“Wait — _wait_ ,” you hurry, planting your hands against Steve’s chest. He’s warm and broad and somehow hard and soft at the same time, yielding against your touch but pressing up against you too. After the hour that you’d been through, you’re both about ready to conk out — your hips are aching from having your thighs spread on either side of Steve’s hips for so long, and don’t even get you _started_ on the soreness between your legs, but—

“Stay.”

Steve’s got a whole after-sex thing that he takes as gospel. He either starts up the shower or gets some sort of cloth or wipe or tissue or _something_ to clean up the mess between your legs — follows everything up with a bottle of water and some sort of snack, but you’re just so _comfortable_. Comfortable, and warm, and full, and _tired_ , and you don’t want to move.

“What?” Steve’s fingers tighten on your waist, and if the sudden twitch inside of you is anything to go by, you’d say the idea doesn’t exactly _repulse_ him. Maybe it’s the closeness, the intimacy of just… _being_ inside you without any ulterior motive.

“Just—” Why do you suddenly feel so bashful? Maybe because he’s staring right at you and despite the fact that your chest is flush with his, you feel so exposed and— “Just stay inside me. I don’t know.”

You’re so _sore_. Lord knows just how much you’ve been using your free time for… _less than appropriate_ activities. You’ve begun waking up with aching hips and pain when you walk and sensitive nipples and you _want_ to say that you hate it but honestly? Who are you kidding? Annoyance at your inability to walk straight aside, there’s something about the reminder of your escapades that always has your tummy doing flips. You’d think that after a year of dating you’d be a tad more insusceptible, but here you are, practically begging him to stay inside of you after he’s finished because you like being filled by him. 

(And you’re not even embarrassed to admit it, at this point.) 

“You — you sure, sweetheart?” And he shifts slightly underneath you, but somehow he’s pressing in at an angle that makes everything feel _that_ much deeper, and you suddenly have to pretend like the air wasn’t just completely knocked out of you.

“Uh huh. Yeah,” you say, acting as if your voice isn’t suddenly too high-pitched. “I… I like being like this.”

Luckily for your ego, Steve only chuckles, breathless. “Me too.”

**Week 4, Day 2.**

“I looked at the footage of the hotel — it’s been edited. The hotel staff said that your parents have a room there, yes, but they have no record of them actually _staying_ there during the time the email was sent.”

 _It’s too much of a coincidence._ “It’s too much of a coincidence,” you say, looking around the table. The only people present are you, Steve, Tony, Bucky. Natasha and Sam are off somewhere in Japan doing something _classified_ and you haven’t heard from Wanda or Vision since lunch. You’re pretty sure they’re on the rooftop making out, which is good for them — this doesn’t really concern them, anyway. “Too clean-cut. I don’t believe it for a second.”

“We can check street cams,” Steve suggests.

“In New York City?” Tony scoffs. “C’mon. We’d have more luck putting up an ad asking them to turn themselves in.”

They fade into background noise, the three of them. You find yourself staring at one of many pens scattered over the tabletop, just _thinking_. 

You’ve had this gut feeling ever since everything started that they’d be the ones behind this. It’s been in the back of your mind ever since the gala, actually, when you noticed your father’s eyes zeroed in on Steve’s hand at your waist — he’s always been so incredibly spot-on with his assumptions, your father. And you have no doubt that your little show did enough damage to their pride to capitalise on it. 

You’ve been trying to convince yourself otherwise, you think, this whole time. _Maybe it was someone else. Maybe someone hacked my phone and found everything. Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe…_

The _St. Regis_ is the final straw. They did this on purpose, you know now — the perfect way to get under your skin. Mar your good name, expose your most dire secret, drag your boyfriend’s name through the dirt — dangle the evidence of their involvement right in front of your nose, but not leave enough scraps to be able to piece together any proof. They had purposefully chosen the most sensationalising tabloid available this side of the globe, somewhere they knew would publish the article even without a shred of actual evidence. They _knew_ that once the article took off, the public would do the rest of the digging themselves — the café dates and the too-long hugs, the hidden smiles.

They wanted to ruin everything you’ve built, and make you go crazy with frustration in the process. Why were you still giving them this power over you? Why are you still letting them play you like a little puppet?

Your relationship is already public. Nothing can change that — no _evidence_ against them will change that. The only thing nailing them will do is put the faces to the crime, but… you don’t think you need it. Not anymore.

“I think we should stop the investigation,” you announce. The room goes quiet. 

“Baby, what are you talking about?”

“We know who did it, Stevie,” you say tiredly. “ _They_ did it, Steve. C’mon. You guys know it, I know it — we’ll never get concrete evidence against them, they’re too smart for that. The only thing we’re achieving is playing right into their hands.” And then, hurriedly: “I–I understand if you want to, Stevie. You deserve closure as much as I do. I just… I don’t know.”

Tony purses his lips, looking between you two. “Y'know what, Barnes,” he says finally, nodding towards the door. “I think this is a conversation they need to have alone.“ 

And so Tony and Bucky take their leave, trailing out of the room with a promise to return in ten minutes. Steve turns fully to you, running a hand over his beard. ”…are you sure about this?“ 

“100 percent,” you say firmly. “Or… 96%. I thought that getting whoever did this was going to give me some closure, or… I don’t know. But now, _knowing_ that it was _them_? This is just the kind of thing that they do. They try to get under your skin and drive you _crazy_ , and I won’t give them the satisfaction.” 

When Steve only grunts a sound of acknowledgement, staring thoughtfully at the table, you pause. “But I want to know what you want, too. If you wanna try and get them, I guess—”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Steve interrupts. “As much as this is about both of us, they’re _your_ parents. This is your choice. I just wanna make sure this isn’t something that you’ll regret.”  
“I think I regret having spent four weeks worth of resources on trying to catch them out,” you admit, almost sheepish. “Everybody’s time was wasted.”

“I wouldn’t call it a waste, exactly.” Steve’s hand reaches for yours, and he presses his lips to your knuckles encouragingly. “You got _some_ closure at least, right? We know who did it. That’s something.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” But still, you remember how much Steve had needed his _own_ closure — the assurance that your parents would be punished in _some_ capacity for what they had done. “And… you’re okay with letting them go?”

"You remember what Tony said to your dad?" 

"Uh, vaguely.” You remember threats of ruining their fortune and their connections, and you have no doubt that Tony Stark has the fire, money, and gall to make it all happen. “You really think Tony wasn’t bluffing?”

Steve nods, his frown easing up slightly. “We don’t need a conviction for them to get what they deserve. Tony’ll take care of that. And if that isn’t enough, well… I’ll pay ‘em a visit.” There’s a glint in his eyes that lets you know that it isn’t enough, and that visit is going to happen whether or not they like it.

“Okay,” you breathe — and it really is like a breath of fresh air, a weight off your shoulders, knowing that you’re finally stepping out of this period of uncertainty and into something much less restricted, much less _restrained_. Something that’s once again in your control. “Okay. This is — this is good.”

No more house arrest. No more looking over your shoulder. This is a new chapter, a new opportunity to step forward with your life and your career, and — what can you say? You feel like you’re blessed that Steve is the one beside you — that, after everything, you’re _still_ standing strong, despite it all. Any doubt that had somehow still lingered after you stood up to your parents is just… gone. 

Time and time again they’ve tried to tear you down — time and time again you’ve moved on and up from them.

“It is.” His face loses its severeness, finally — he smiles, all boyish and dare you say _excited_ , almost, and that smile is the final nail in the coffin, because if _Steve_ is feeling good about this, it means that everything has finally passed. Everything’s _okay_. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?” You can’t even hold the giddy smile tugging at your lips as he leans closer, nudging his nose against yours. He’s so close that when he speaks next, his lips brush against yours, and you have to stop yourself from just leaning forward and closing the gap.

“Means I can finally take you on a proper date—” And he does what you were itching to do, and pecks your lips before pulling away— “Without having to look over our shoulders, huh?”

“I already love our dates,” you say truthfully. “But I guess I wouldn’t _object—_ ”

A squeal as Steve reaches to poke at your side, and you’re not sure whether it’s the relief of the situation being over or — or _what_ it is that has you both dissolving into giggles. All you know is that when Tony and Bucky peak their heads in 5 minutes later, they take one look at you both before officially announcing that the investigation is closed.

(And what do you know – exactly four days later, you and Steve take your first outing as a public couple, holding hands and beaming for the entire world to see. That same website that had posted the article that had started the entire ordeal is the _first_ to comment:

 _Heart-spangled Banners?_ (You _snort_ when you read that _–_ ) _Tap for pictures of your new favourite celeb couple!_ ) 


End file.
